Echoes and Questions
by Rachel Smith Cobleigh
Summary: What does Steve Rogers wrestle with when he's not out performing heroic deeds of derring-do, but just living in the quiet times in between, and working up the courage to approach his pretty neighbor? Set a month after the events of Captain America: The Winter Soldier. [T for mild sexual content]
1. A Second Chance

ECHOES AND QUESTIONS

A _Captain America (Marvel Cinematic Universe)_ story

by Rachel Smith Cobleigh

* * *

_1_

When she passed him on the stairs, laundry basket under her arm, she didn't meet his eyes. They hadn't crossed paths since he'd hurled an angry, accusatory reply of "Neighbor." at her outside Pierce's office. He and Sam had since been off to Moscow for a frustrating search that had only led to a dead end and a near-miss encounter with the FSB. Steve wasn't sure what to do next; he'd reduced his former day job to rubble and the remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D. had scattered to the four winds. He wasn't eager to reenlist and he suspected that no one on Capitol Hill was all that eager to have him back on board, now that he had demonstrated a marked unwillingness to merely follow orders without question, and at enormous cost to them. Public opinion was on his side, but in political circles, he was an uncomfortable reminder of an embarrassing, widespread failure to govern properly. Fury had advised him to lay low for a while. They knew where to find him if they needed him, but he had no way of contacting Natasha or Fury or most of the others. With his one lead for finding Bucky now dried up, he was faced with the daunting prospect of being untethered in a world that was still alien to him. Thank God for Sam, but even his friendship was too new to feel truly settled yet.

Steve twisted as he continued up the stairs, watching Kate's—no, Sharon's—blonde head bobbing down the stairs before she disappeared around the corner. He frowned and straightened, hefting his duffle bag over his shoulder.

_"Do me a favor," Natasha said. "Call that nurse."_

_"She's not a nurse."_

_"And you're not a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent."_

_"What was her name again?"_

_"Sharon. She's nice."_

He made his way to his apartment door, fit his key into the lock, and went inside, pushing the door closed behind him. He shrugged off his jacket and hung it up, then dumped the contents of the duffle bag on the floor, separated the lights and darks, and started the darks in the washing machine before picking up his toiletries bag and his Kindle and heading into the bedroom. The noise of the washing machine filling up was the only sound in his apartment.

He glanced at the light on his answering machine, but there were no messages. He'd been gone for nearly a month, and no one had called. No one.

He frowned and walked into the bathroom, where he opened the toiletries bag and set it up in its usual place near the sink. He looked at himself in the mirror for a long moment.

Sam's question still lingered: _What makes you happy?_

Reading. Sketching. Both were solitary pursuits.

They used to make him happy, because they were an escape from people. People who bullied him or mocked him or purposely ignored him. But now escaping from people was not his problem. There weren't enough people in his life to make him want to escape from any of them. No one bullied or mocked or ignored him now. He much preferred the respect and deference, but he had found that his obvious strength was just as off-putting as his obvious weakness had been. And it wasn't just his physical attributes that gave him this sense of dissociation: his most cherished values were out of place in this world. He could read as much of Wikipedia as he wished, but he would never feel at home in this culture, with its easy acceptance of attitudes that he found deeply disturbing. He had accepted Natasha's teasing "fossil" jokes with equanimity, knowing the spirit in which they were intended, but they still stung. He would never fit in, would never really be able to relax and just feel comfortable around people, and know that they felt comfortable around him.

The Howling Commandos had been the closest he'd ever come to having a family, but they were all dead. Well, all except Bucky, and Steve didn't know who his former best friend was now.

His reflection stared back at him, frowning.

_Who am _I_ now?_

Shaking off this thought, he turned on the shower, made sure the water was nice and hot and then peeled off his shirt.

His doorbell rang. He wasn't sure he'd heard the faint chime over the sounds of the shower and the washing machine, but he poked his head out into the hall just to make sure.

There it was again. He frowned. Who could it be? Someone to offer him a place to find some purpose again? He shook his head. If Natasha walked in here now with merely an annoying clean-up mission for Fury, Steve thought he'd follow her into it just to put off the job of figuring his future out for himself.

_Now where is the courage in that?_ he asked himself as he walked down the hall. Natasha was building a deep cover for herself; she was nowhere near here. He had no similar goal: there was no point in him building a cover of any kind. It wasn't in his nature to maintain a long-term deception and his face had been plastered on so many posters, magazine covers, and whatnot that actually going into hiding was a non-starter. He sighed. No. He had to sort this out for himself.

He pulled open the door.

Sharon the not-nurse was standing there, clearly about to say something, but her words seemed stuck in her throat. He frowned. She dragged her eyes up to his and swallowed, then pressed her lips together in a straight line.

"Yes?" he asked, his tone short.

She seemed to sag just a little before straightening again. Her eyes grew distant, and there was none of the surprised openness in her expression any longer.

"I…just wanted to apologize," she said. When he frowned, she continued quickly, "For lying to you. I'm sorry."

After a moment of silence, she nodded, turned on her heel, and drew a key out of her pocket. He liked her relaxed clothing and her lack of pretense.

"Why didn't you take me up on my offer?" he asked suddenly, half-surprising himself.

She paused and turned slowly, her hand dropping back to her side. She was frowning.

"Pardon?"

He made a lame gesture with his hand. "You know. Laundry. Using my machines."

Her face cleared. "Oh. I–" she looked away, frowned. "I thought you were…interested in me."

He put his hand awkwardly on his hip, his elbow bumping against the doorframe. He frowned at her, annoyed. "I was."

She swallowed and nodded, then started to fit the key in her lock, clearly eager to be out of his presence.

"Am I really that out of touch?" he asked. He regretted revealing his frustration as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but it was too late to take them back.

She looked at him. "No."

He looked down, nodding. She wasn't interested in him. And he wasn't even sure why he cared. Except that he knew exactly why, and he didn't want to admit it.

He thought of Peggy lying in her bed at the assisted living facility, of the pictures of her children, of the way that the light went in and out of her eyes, and of how even she didn't know him any longer. No one did, not really. He just wanted to be _known_, and to be allowed to know someone else just as fully. But everyone was shuttered to him. It didn't matter how hard he tried. He just didn't belong here.

He thought he might have a good cry in the shower and then start looking online at the employment postings. Hill had gone to Stark Industries. Maybe he could check around their website. They probably needed security, people willing to travel. He was unattached; he could do that. He didn't like cronyism, but maybe Stark would help him get on his feet in the civilian world, get a little experience for his resume so that he could branch out into other things. He smirked and started to push his door closed. At least Stark wouldn't be star-struck when Captain America walked into the job interview.

"I couldn't say yes," Sharon said, her voice so quiet that he wasn't immediately certain he'd heard her correctly. The washing machine was still running behind him and the shower was still on. He needed to go make use of that, stop wasting all the water, but he paused and looked across at her.

"What?"

She had turned to face him. "I couldn't say yes."

He frowned. "Why not? S.H.I.E.L.D. didn't have an anti-fraternization policy. As I understand it, they actually encouraged that sort of thing, to a certain extent."

"It wasn't that." She looked at the floor, then met his eyes. "I couldn't say yes. Not while I was lying to you."

He tilted his head and looked at her for a long moment. "Natasha likes you," he finally said.

Sharon raised her chin, giving him a small smile. "She does?"

"She doesn't like most people," he said.

"She likes you," Sharon pointed out.

"I don't count."

"Why not?"

"Because she knows she has nothing to fear from me."

Sharon smiled at this. "Did she say why she likes me?"

"No," he admitted.

They stared at one another for a moment, and then Sharon nodded at his—bare, he now remembered with some chagrin—torso. "You should go take that shower," she said, "and stop using up all the hot water. I was hoping to take one, too."

_That_ mental image put a lump in his throat and left him feeling too warm and uncomfortably conscious of the snug fit of his khakis.

"Oh—I'm sorry—I hadn't—"

Sharon laughed, a gentle, calming sound. "I was just teasing. I'm sure there'll be plenty for me. Have a good evening."

She twisted her doorknob and pushed open her door.

"Sharon, wait," he said, gathering his courage and pulling his door all the way open again. He stepped out into the hall and put out a hand. "Can we start over?"

A mix of emotions crossed her features and he had just begun to feel like a fool when she smiled and gave him a brief nod.

"I'd like that," she said.

"I haven't had supper yet…" he began.

Her face fell. "Oh. I have."

"Oh." He looked at the floor.

"Do you want me to make you an omelet?" she asked.

He looked up in surprise. "Sure." Then he gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "You'd probably better make it five of them," he said. He gestured at himself. "Faster metabolism."

"Oh, right," she said, her eyes taking him in. "I'm not sure I have enough eggs for that."

He felt briefly like a lab specimen and shrugged awkwardly. "Well, that's okay. I can just—"

"No, it's fine," she said at the same time. They both stopped, looked at each other, laughed awkwardly, and then she said, "I'll just run down to the corner and buy another couple dozen."

"I could do that," he said.

"You need a shower," she said. "You smell."

He frowned, then lifted one arm to take a sniff. "I do?"

She giggled. "Go. I'll have them whipped up in twenty minutes. Do you like peppers and onions?"

He grinned, lowering his arm. "Love 'em."

"Great," she smiled back. "Anything you don't like?"

He squinted to the side and frowned. "Eggplant?"

"I love eggplant," she said. "How can you not love eggplant?"

He shrugged. "It tastes off. And I don't want to be reminded of eggs while I'm supposed to be eating a vegetable."

"Oh…maybe an omelet isn't such a good idea," she said, frowning.

He laughed. "No, that's fine. I expect to taste the eggs and to taste the vegetables. There's no problem there."

She eyed him skeptically.

He shrugged. "It makes sense in my head."

She chuckled and reached into her apartment for her coat and her wallet. "All right."

"Are you sure you want to do this? I'm not putting you to any trouble?"

"Of course you're putting me to trouble," she said. "But I don't mind."

He gave her a small smile, and she returned it. She shrugged her coat on and pulled her door closed as he turned to go back into his apartment. When he reached the door he looked back at her. She was starting down the first step.

"Do I really smell?" he asked.

He heard her laughter as she disappeared down the stairs.

"Yes," she called back. "Very good."

He chuckled and marveled at how light he felt. As he went back into his apartment, still smiling, he realized that he had found something—or rather, someone—who made him happy. Who knew if anything would come of it?

As he strode back into the bathroom and into the clouds of steam that were billowing out of the shower, he smiled to himself. Either way, he was very much looking forward to finding out.


	2. Dinner

_2_

Sharon focused on beating the bowlful of eggs with her whisk. She had laid out a variety of vegetables and chopped up a package of chicken sausage. She thought she was prepared to make a fine omelet, but what would he think?

It wasn't as if she were trying to impress him with her cooking skills; making an omelet wasn't exactly the height of culinary achievement, but it was healthy and filling and easy, and that made it good eats in her book. She hadn't cooked for a man since Phil—she swallowed back that thought and evaluated the bowl of beaten eggs. She chuckled to herself. Five omelets, huh? She'd never really considered how Steve Rogers's daily existence must now be different from the average man's. What else was different about him?

Her mind immediately slid into the gutter and she closed her eyes. _Not now, girl,_ she told herself. _Maybe not ever._

What was she doing? Was she ready for this? Two years seemed both an eternity and too soon. And with Captain America? _That_ had never been in her plans. When she'd suggested the newly-available apartment across the hall to Director Fury, she hadn't been thinking that far ahead. She'd just been eager to help a national hero, and HR had been more than happy to have an easy place to put the man that was within eyeshot of an established S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

She didn't know what she'd been expecting, really. Not a healthy young man, certainly, and not one who seemed to be able to see through her. He had an unnerving gaze, as though he were really _looking_ at you when you were speaking. Lying to him had become the hardest thing she'd ever done, because she could see the openness and trust in his expression. He hadn't deserved it. But Director Fury had insisted that Rogers be made to feel comfortable, not watched, and she understood that. He'd had the eyes of the world on him from the moment he'd run out into Times Square in his bare feet and made the evening news. For a man who was so thoroughly unassuming, it was strange to see all the magazine stands and the movie posters and the TV interviews and the Presidential handshaking and the crowds of excited fans.

So when he came home at night, it was important that he be made to feel as though he were in a protected, private space. And for the most part, he had been. Of course she knew about the surveillance equipment in his apartment; she had installed most of it herself. But she had never had reason to check on any of it. She left that sort of thing to Director Fury and chose to believe that Fury wasn't invading Rogers's privacy unnecessarily. That didn't eliminate her increasing sense of guilt, but there was nothing to be done about that. She had a job to do, and she rather liked imagining herself as a kind of quiet, benign guardian angel, there to protect him if he had ever had need of her.

He hadn't, of course. The reporters had stopped following him around fairly quickly when he ceased to be of interest and became entirely predictable in his daily routine. His complete lack of interest in engaging in any questionable behavior also helped decrease his newsworthiness. At the time, she hadn't known if he was being deliberately boring just to get rid of the cameras, or if he really was that committed to the straight and narrow. Now, though, she had no doubt of his intentions and values. He was a breath of fresh air.

The doorbell rang and she looked up from her chopping, wiping at her eyes.

When she let him in, his face immediately grew concerned.

"Are you okay?" he asked. "I don't have to—I can come back another time—"

She waved him down. "I'm just chopping the onion," she said with a smile. "C'mon in."

"Ah," he said with a grin. "How can I help?"

She smiled to herself as she walked into the kitchen. "Pick a vegetable. There's another cutting board in that cupboard," she gestured at it, "and knives over in the block."

"Right," he said, and got himself set up with a head of broccoli on the other side of her breakfast bar. She went back to finishing the onion, watching him out of the corner of her eye. She was amused to note that he was wearing what appeared to be his pajamas: relaxed, draw-string pants and a t-shirt that left little to her imagination. Although, she thought, as she finished her chopping and scraped the bits of onion into a waiting bowl, it probably wasn't easy for him to find t-shirts that fit him more loosely. His upper body was massive. It was unlikely that he was wearing a tight-fitting shirt purposely to have an influence on her. But how well did she know him, really?

"Is this good?" he asked, gesturing at his cutting board with his knife. He'd reduced the head of broccoli to an even chop in the space of two minutes. She'd been so distracted by his pecs and biceps that she hadn't paid attention to his hands, or even touched the green pepper that was in front of her. What had come over her? She wasn't all that into muscles, she'd thought. Too intimidating, all that obvious physicality, but here she was, mentally grinding her gears just as much as all those stereotypical screaming fangirls.

She dragged her eyes back down to the hill of broccoli on his cutting board. "Um, yes. That looks great." She looked up at him. "But you'll be the one eating it, so it's really up to you."

He nodded and smiled at her. "Okay. What else needs to be done?"

She twisted and glanced around the kitchen. "How about grating the cheese?"

His eyes lit on the block of parmesan and he grinned. "Mmm. Where's the grater?"

"In the cupboard above the fridge," she said, and watched with some amusement as he opened the indicated cupboard doors and easily plucked the box grater out. It wasn't an item she used often, so she stored it up there, and she normally had to get a step-stool out to rummage around in that cupboard. _Having him around could be handy,_ she thought, and then silenced herself and focused on chopping the pepper.

"How was your trip?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I didn't find what I was looking for."

She chopped a bit more before glancing at him. "To be honest, I didn't know if you would return."

"This is my home," he said. He set down the box grater and scraped the broccoli off his cutting board into an empty bowl.

She nodded and pressed her lips together, searching for something to say. She looked up. "What happened to your motorcycle?" she asked. "I didn't see it on the curb when you came in."

"A plane crashed into it." He wiped the broccoli remnants off his cutting board and set the box grater on it.

"Oh, right." She felt like an idiot. She'd watched the battle on the bridge, along with everyone else, on the security feed. The fate of the motorcycle had been easy to forget in the midst of the spectacle around it. What he'd done had seemed like something out of an adrenaline-fueled fantasy, but the whole thing had been caught live on tape. He'd single-handedly brought down a compact fighter jet and run off, apparently unscathed. And now he was standing in her kitchen, helping her make omelets.

"So," he said, peeling the wrapping off the cheese, and she glanced up at him. "Why are you still here?"

She frowned at him and held the knife still. "What?"

He shrugged. "You don't work for S.H.I.E.L.D. now," he said. "Watching out for me isn't your job any longer."

She smirked at him and went back to chopping the pepper. "It was never my _whole_ job," she said. "Not even a particularly big part of it, in fact. I was just the backup. I wasn't living here solely for your benefit." She pushed a pile of chopped pepper off to the side. "I've been living here for eight years. This is my home."

"Oh," he said, looking chagrined. "I hadn't realized."

"No," she said, giving him a significant look. "There's a lot about me you don't know."

"Yes," he said. "For starters, what's your last name?"

She smiled. "Carter."

He caught himself in mid-grate and stared at her. "Carter?"

She nodded. "I'm her great-niece." She pantomimed holding a phone up to her ear. "She was the aunt I mentioned. Sometimes she calls at odd hours; she doesn't realize what time it is."

His eyes searched her face and he swallowed, then looked down. He began to grate the cheese again, but more slowly.

She looked down as well and sliced into the remaining half of the pepper. "She mentions you sometimes, you know." He didn't say anything, but she could tell he was listening closely. His body had stilled, despite the grating he was doing. "I don't think she ever stopped loving you."

"No," he said, his voice quiet. "Nor I her."

Sharon swallowed and nodded, then frowned as she blinked back a sudden desire to tear up. She swallowed again and returned to chopping. "She stays in surprisingly good spirits."

He chuckled. "She's indomitable."

Sharon laughed. "So aptly put."

"Did she have a good life?" he asked.

Sharon looked up at him in some surprise, then looked away and paused her chopping, laying the knife aside for a moment. She swallowed. "She always made the most of it, I think. She embraced the good with the bad and never let anything stop her from finding joy…eventually." Sharon smiled and picked up her knife, gesturing at him with it. "And she taught me what to look for in a man."

He eyed the knife with a smirk. "And how to keep them at bay? I seem to recall that she was very good at that."

Sharon laughed and went back to chopping. "Some of that, too, yes." Her smile died away and she frowned down at the pepper, turning the strips she'd made so that she could cut them crosswise.

"What is it?" Steve asked.

She looked up quickly and met his eyes. She hadn't really talked to anyone about this, outside of her mother and sister, but she found that she wanted to tell him now. He was watching her with that frank gaze; if she hid from him, he wouldn't press her on it, but he would know that she wasn't being entirely forthright with him, and that would put a damper on whatever was burgeoning between them. She frowned, made quick work of the remaining strips of green pepper, scraped them into the bowl with the chopped onion, and set down the knife. She drew in a deep breath.

"My husband died in the Battle of New York," she said. Steve straightened and set down the remaining chunk of ungrated cheese.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

She nodded. "It was no one's fault. He was hit by a falling piece of debris and died instantly. No pain."

He nodded and looked down with a frown.

"Still," he said.

She put out a hand, touched the back of his where it rested on the breakfast bar. "You did all you could. You were amazing. You'd only been back for two weeks, and you took command of a disparate group of unruly fighters and saved us all."

"Not all," he said.

"Yes, all," she insisted. He looked up at her, searching her face. When she didn't flinch, he swallowed and blinked and frowned and looked away.

"What is it?" she asked.

He shook his head.

She drew her hand back and looked at the food laid out on the breakfast bar. There was enough prepped to start cooking. She started to move away, but his hand on her forearm stopped her. He'd never touched her before. She looked up at him with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I wish I could do more."

She smiled up at him, wanting desperately to give him a hug, but not sure how he would respond to that. So she just smiled.

"You _are_ doing more," she said quietly.

He met her eyes. She had a wild thought that he might kiss her, but he didn't. He just searched her face, his expression uncertain.

She had a sudden flash of insight and stepped forward before she could overthink it. She reached up to cup the sides of his face with her hands and, when he didn't seem to be pulling away from her, she pushed up on her toes and pressed her lips softly against his.

His response was slow, tentative at first, gentle. She closed her eyes. When she felt his hands come around her waist, she moved her own hands onto his shoulders, still not demanding, just patient and content. They briefly parted and then he met her again.

This kiss was an odd mixture of confidence and uncertainty and when they paused again, she smiled and drew back. She looked up at him and was amused to note that he seemed slightly out of breath, his mouth open as he looked down at her.

"Was that okay?" she asked. His hands shifted up to her back, his eyes changed subtly, and she had very little warning when he pulled her against his chest and met her mouth with his own. There was a desperation in this kiss. It seemed laced with fear. His body was tense and too strong and hard; there was suddenly nothing soft or relatable about him. She tried to meet him, but the awkward angle of her neck became painful and she was forced to turn her face down, breaking their contact. He let go of her immediately.

"I'm sorry," he said, stepping back and holding out his hands. He didn't meet her eyes. He started to turn away. "I shouldn't have done that."

She put out a hand, touching his forearm as he had done to her earlier. He paused and looked at her.

"It's alright," she said gently. "What was that? Please, tell me."

He frowned and glanced away, then looked at the floor. When he raised his eyes again to hers, she was surprised to see them glistening with unshed tears.

"I don't think I can do this," he said.

"Why not?" she asked.

He looked away and shook his head.

She pressed her lips together, then took a step closer, dropping her hand from his arm.

"What are you afraid of, Steve?"

At the sound of his name, he looked at her.

"I'm a hot mess," he said.

She chuckled and relaxed. Hearing him adopt modern slang lifted her spirits, somehow.

"Well, yes," she said. "That's rather obvious."

He blinked at her and frowned, but the wet in his eyes had receded.

"Look," she said, turning away and going around the breakfast bar to the range. She turned on the burner under her largest frying pan, which she'd already sprayed with oil. When she turned around, she was pleased to see that he'd stepped back up to the edge of the breakfast bar. "I can only imagine how it must feel to be in your position, but whenever I do, I can only think of how horrifying it would be if it had happened to me. Your body transformed into something unrecognizable, no matter how desirable it might be, your sense of time entirely displaced, all of the people you knew and loved either gone or nearly so, and then the one organization where you'd begun to make a place for yourself is now completely destroyed, and by your own hand. It would be easy to second-guess every decision you ever made in your life, to ask yourself if any of it was worth it, were you even right, can you trust your own judgement, what about all the people who lost their lives because of your actions, and who are you now? You're lost in so many ways that I don't even know where to start."

The smell of cooking oil began to fill the room. She reached for the bowl of egg mixture and began whisking it again. He stood in front of her in silence.

"Please correct me if I'm wrong," she said finally, meeting his eyes and smiling, "but I assume that was the first time you kissed a woman since 1945."

Unexpectedly, he laughed and crossed his arms. "Actually, no," he said. "Natasha dragged me into a kiss as part of our cover while we were hiding from the S.T.R.I.K.E. team."

"Ah," Sharon said with a grin. "Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable."

He frowned, still amused. "What is that, from a standard S.H.I.E.L.D. training manual? Those were the exact words that she used."

Sharon laughed. "Something like that. Female agents were given some…additional training that the men were not."

"Really?" Steve asked, dropping his arms and drifting around the breakfast bar. "Like what?"

"Alternate defensive techniques," she answered evasively. "You guys do have us at a physical disadvantage, you know."

"I could say the same for you ladies," he said, his voice lower than it had been before.

She raised her eyebrows at him. Was this Steve Rogers, flirting? Well, there was one way to find out. She turned her back on him, whisked the bowl of eggs a few more times, and then poured out some of the mixture into the pan, where it hissed and crackled. She set down the bowl and picked up the spatula.

"Would you hand me the cheese?" she asked, without turning around.

"Sure," he said, and a moment later, to her satisfaction, she felt him come up behind her. Her body was alert and sensitive to his presence, his warmth, and the movement of air from his breathing. Which, she realized, was much slower than what she had expected. He seemed to be exhaling once for every two or three times that she felt the urge to. After a long moment of standing close behind her, he held out the bowl. At her nod, he tilted it and poured some of the cheese into the pan, his arm brushing against her shoulder.

"Is that good?" he asked.

"You'll be the one eating it," she answered. He chuckled and his breath stirred her hair. She shifted her weight backwards slightly and brought herself into the barest of contact with him, heard him inhale, and smiled to herself.

After a long moment he said, in a slightly strangled tone of voice that made her smile more widely, "I'd better get the rest—of the food."

"Good idea," she said, turning with a smile and brushing purposely against him as she did. She slipped past him and gathered up the bowls of broccoli, peppers and onions, tomato, and chopped sausage. "Chicken sausage okay?"

"Great," he answered. "Here, let me." He took the bowls from her, set them on the counter beside the range, made quick work of sprinkling their contents into the rapidly-cooking egg and cheese mixture, and then picked up the pan and flipped the omelet over onto itself, deftly folding it in half with a flick of his wrist. She realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it. He turned around, holding the pan with the perfectly-folded omelet, and her stomach growled. "Plate?" he asked.

She unfroze and quickly reached up to open the cupboard that contained her plates. He pulled one out and slid the omelet onto it before setting it down on the breakfast bar and turning back to the range. He set the pan down on the flames again and glanced at her with a smirk.

"Are you sure you aren't hungry?" he asked.

She laughed. "Okay. Make me one, oh master chef."

He shot her an amused look. "Hardly. Just a lot of practice making omelets."

She laughed. "I'll set the table."

She pulled out napkins and utensils and decided to try the white wine glasses.

"Do you drink wine?" she asked, peering into her fridge. She usually kept a couple bottles of white in it, just in case.

"I do," he said, glancing at her in between sprinkling ingredients in the pan. "But I should warn you that if your nefarious plan is to get me drunk and have your way with me, you're going to be sadly disappointed. I can't get drunk, no matter how much alcohol I consume."

"Oh," she said, straightening, and contemplated that for a moment. How sad, to have one avenue of relaxation taken away from him. But the trade-off was life without the threat of ever losing a clear head, she supposed. "Does that bother you?"

"No, not usually," he said, his voice quiet. "I was never much of a drinker before this," he gestured at himself, "so there isn't really anything to miss." He paused, flipped the omelet he was working on. "Sometimes, though, it would be nice to be able to forget."

She nodded, pulled out a bottle of the wine, and closed the refrigerator door. She found the corkscrew after rummaging in a drawer and she pulled out the cork with a satisfying _pop_.

"That wasn't my nefarious plan, by the way," she said with a grin.

"Oh?" he quirked an eyebrow at her and she laughed. "What was it?"

"Just to lend an ear. I hadn't expected to kiss you, even."

He chuckled and slid the omelet onto a second plate before starting the process again. "Neither had I," he said. He poured in some of the egg mixture and looked up at her with a question in his eyes. "I don't regret it."

"Me neither," she said.

His answering smile lit up his face and she felt a grin bubbling up from her chest as she poured the wine into the glasses. This was crazy! They'd been together for less than fifteen minutes and she was happy and aroused and at peace, all at once. She hadn't expected to feel this way with anyone after Phil. He had been a rare blessing, and when he was gone, she'd said _thank You_ and _good-bye_ and _I'll be okay_ and had taken it one day at a time. The debilitating urge to cry had eventually become less frequent, less consuming, until one day she'd gone a whole day without feeling it, and then eventually it had been a week, and then a month, and now it was two years later and she was standing in the same kitchen, remembering Phil standing at that same range, and his warm humor and his curly, untamable brown hair and the way he'd smile at her when he knew she was being coy about her work, and he'd invent some ludicrous spy scenario just to tease her and try to trick her into giving something away, which never worked, but it was so much fun to play the game and remember all the old jokes that only they two knew, all the stupid, silly things that made them laugh, and brought them together even though the requirements of her job kept them apart, and she loved him dearly for forgiving her when she had to hide things from him. She still did.

She looked up and realized that her vision was filled by a massive chest, and that she'd covered her mouth with her hand.

"Sharon?" Steve, not Phil, was asking. "What's wrong? Are you all right?"

She nodded, blinking rapidly, and wiped at her eyes. She smiled up at him through the blurry edges. "Yes. You just reminded me of him for a second."

His face tightened. "Who?"

"Phil."

"Your husband?"

She nodded and finished drying her eyes.

"I'm sorry…" Steve said.

"No. It's a good thing." She drew in a deep breath and exhaled. "You reminded me of a happy time."

He didn't seem to know what to do with himself, so she pushed up on her toes and kissed his cheek, then slipped around him and returned to the range. He'd turned off the burner, so she turned it back on and sprinkled ingredients and finished the omelet in silence.

She hadn't realized how raw the nerve still was. It was the first time she'd begun to let a man back in since Phil's death, so it shouldn't have been a surprise, but it still left her a little shaken. She breathed in and out. Although it hurt to remember, the pain was accompanied by a kind of relief as well, as though an old wound were being lanced.

"Three is enough for now," he said quietly, when she'd finished cooking. "I can make the rest while you eat."

She nodded and carried the two plates over to the table. She sat down in her usual spot and he took the opposite seat.

"Cheers," he said, lifting his glass with a small smile. She followed suit. And then—then she fell in love. Because he bowed his head and closed his eyes and said quietly, "Thank You for this food, this evening, and this…" he opened his eyes and looked up at her with a smile, "…this new friend."

"Amen," she said, her throat tight as she smiled at him.

He shook salt onto his omelets and then picked up his fork and cut one open. He quickly took a bite and smiled at her as he hummed his approval.

"Thank you," he said after swallowing. "This is great."

"You're welcome." She took a bite of her own omelet. It was perfectly cooked: lightly browned, fluffy, just the slightest bit undercooked in the middle. She could get used to this. "You pray over your meal?"

He looked up at her. "Yes."

"I know you've got strong convictions," she said, "and I admire you for them, a great deal."

He took another bite and watched her.

"Look," she said, setting down her fork. "Let me just be clear: despite what I did with you earlier, I'm not interested in some kind of casual-sex arrangement. I have strong convictions, too."

He straightened and sat back, licking his lips, and set down his own fork. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked at her.

"I hope you know that I did not come here expecting even to make out with you." His voice was low and steady. "That's not how I do things."

She relaxed—she hadn't realized she'd been tense—and she smiled and nodded. "That's what I thought. It's not my style, either." She smiled down at her plate. "'Make out'…wow, I haven't heard that phrase in years."

She looked up at him and saw that he was frowning at his plate. He quickly returned to eating and she followed suit.

When he'd cleaned his plate—she was amused to note that he'd finished both of his omelets and she was only about halfway through her one—he sat back and looked at her. She raised her eyebrows and took a sip of wine, feeling self-conscious. Perhaps she shouldn't have been so forthright; it seemed to have killed the mood a bit. Despite that, she couldn't really bring herself to regret it. She'd thought Steve Rogers the sort of man who would not be intimidated by her comment and might, in fact, welcome it, but she wondered what he was thinking and whether she really understood him at all.

He put his napkin on the table, pushed back, and rose to his feet with a gesture towards the range. "Do you mind if I finish making the rest?" he asked.

"Not at all," she said, but she frowned down at her wine glass.

"So," he said, over the snapping sound of the burner being turned on. The flames rose and he reached for the bowl of beaten eggs. "What sort of arrangement _are_ you interested in?"

Sharon's eyes widened and she looked at him. Before this evening, she would have said that she wasn't interested in an arrangement with anyone at the moment, but now that he was standing in her kitchen…

"I don't know," she answered.

He nodded.

"This is all too new," she said. "I have too many questions and not enough answers."

"What sort of questions?"

She frowned and turned the stem of her wine glass. Which one to ask first? What was the most important? When she contemplated the List, most of the early questions were about establishing character, but Sharon was fairly certain that she had a bead on Steve's character and integrity. She smiled, suspecting that Aunt Peggy had probably composed the List with Steve himself in mind. He wasn't exactly hard to pin down in that sense. So what disturbed Sharon? What was worrisome?

The directness. This was no light, flirty first date. There had been some of that, but they were both wearing their nightclothes—implying a certain assumed level of comfort with one another—they'd kissed, they'd each made some of their pain visible to the other, and now they were talking about big-picture expectations. It all seemed to be moving rather quickly, and she wasn't sure if that was healthy. Was she feeling pressured? Why had he kissed her with such desperation? Why had it even been a bit painful? Did he really not know his own strength? That seemed unlikely. Had he forgotten himself in a moment of passion? That also didn't seem quite right: Steve Rogers was a man accustomed to self-discipline. She frowned.

"That upsetting, hmm?" he asked, and she looked up quickly and gave him a weak smile. He was going through the motions of finishing the omelet, but he was watching her with a pained expression.

"No…not upsetting. Puzzling," she said slowly. "I feel like I know you so well in some ways, just from how Aunt Peggy has talked about you and from watching how you've responded to the circumstances I've witnessed, but I don't really _know_ you. All of my assumptions could be wrong."

He nodded, sliding the omelet onto his plate and starting another one.

"You've gotten the shape of things pretty well so far," he said. "I'm adrift. I'm looking for an anchor. I freely admit to needing some human contact right now." He looked at her. "I don't want to make you that anchor, or load you down with my baggage."

"Why not?" she asked.

He frowned and sprinkled cheese and then broccoli on the frying pan.

"I couldn't ask that of you," he finally said.

"Why not?"

He sighed. "You can't solve my problems for me; I need to take responsibility for myself."

She smiled. "Good."

He looked at her with a self-deprecating smile. "Was that some kind of test?"

"Yes," she said, standing, and she came up beside him. "You passed. First rule of healthy relationships: having healthy expectations of each other."

He smiled, a lopsided grin that struck her as weary.

"We can't necessarily solve each other's problems," she said, "but we might still be able to help one another find the solutions."

He nodded, sprinkled the sausage and the tomatoes, and flipped the omelet over onto itself before sliding it onto his plate. They went back to the table and he sat looking at his food for a long moment.

"I'm not sure most of my problems _have_ solutions," he said. "And I'm not sure how to live with them myself, so how can I ask someone else to live with them as well?"

He was looking at her with such a lost, saddened expression that she chuckled.

"So dramatic," she said with a smile. "Let's move out of the vague generalizations and into something concrete. Pick one thing that's bothering you right now and tell me about it." She took a bite of her cooling omelet and raised her eyebrows expectantly.

"Where do I go now? What should I be doing? What do I want from life?"

"That's three questions."

"All facets of the same struggle, though," he said quietly.

She regarded him for a moment, chewing, and then she swallowed.

"What makes you happy?" she asked.

He laughed and sat forward. "That's what Sam asked."

"Sam?"

"Sam Wilson. Falcon." Steve started eating again.

"Oh, right. I didn't think he was S.H.I.E.L.D. How did he get involved?"

Steve grimaced. "I dragged him into it. His apartment was the only safe place I could think of after Pierce bombed us."

Now it was Sharon's turn to grimace. Losing Phil had been awful, much more difficult than she'd expected it to be. She didn't think she could go through that again, but Steve Rogers practically came with the guarantee that one day she would. A man with his skills, visibility, and tendency to run to the first line of defense was only buying time before he died in the line of duty. Her own choice of profession wasn't that far off from the same danger.

She swallowed thickly and pushed those thoughts away. They were both alive right now, talking and breathing and facing the future with all of its unknowns, possibly together. His directness made sense now and she appreciated it.

She gave him a smile. "Did you meet him at the VA?"

"No. We took the same route for our morning run," he answered, frowning in question.

She shrugged. "I did a tour in Iraq. As a field medic."

"So you _are_ a nurse…sort of."

She smiled down at her wine glass. "Sort of."

"How did you end up at S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"I did my undergrad in computer science and kept it up as a hobby while I was enlisted," she said. "I wrote a tracer that caught someone's attention. Between that, the medic skills, and my marksmanship...among other things...they thought I was useful."

Steve nodded. "So what _was_ your day job?"

"I was a Launch Control Manager for Project Insight," she said.

His eyebrows rose and then he frowned. "Why didn't you stop the launch when I asked?"

She scowled. "I tried. Rumlow started bullying Avram—one of my techs—into pushing the button, but Avram resisted. He was the first one who did. When Rumlow pulled a gun on him, I pulled my own on Rumlow—along with half the room—and he put his down." She growled. "I was an idiot, trusting the gun to keep him in line. He pulled a knife on me and I lost it." She held up her wrist to show him the fresh pink scar. "He caught it and started to go for Avram again, but I kicked Avram's chair out from under him and he rolled under the desk to get away. Rumlow had full access to Avram's console at that point and I was too far away to stop him." She glared at the far wall without seeing it. "I should have shot him when I had the chance."

"No," Steve said. "You did the right thing."

She frowned at him. "How can you say that? I was useless. I was in the perfect position to stop the whole thing from happening and I failed!"

"You resisted," he said. "You can't blame yourself for things that were out of your control."

"But it _wasn't_ out of my control!" she hissed. "I should have known better than to trust in a gun."

Steve narrowed his eyes at her. "True. But how much combat experience do you have?"

She shifted uncomfortably. "Not a lot. Some."

"And how much do you suppose Rumlow has?"

She frowned.

"Rumlow has enough to skill to make a run at me," Steve said. "He was the last man standing when they tried to capture me in the elevator and he inflicted plenty of pain before I knocked him out."

"What happened?" she asked, sitting forward. "I saw the elevator afterwards."

Now it was his turn to scowl. "It was stupid. They packed ten men into a small space and tried to use strength of numbers to take me down. No one had room to move, and merely grabbing me was a useless tactic." He looked down. "If they'd gotten both cuffs on me, they might have had a chance, but I never let them get that far." He looked up at her and smiled. "Don't look so concerned. I'm fine."

"Rumlow was your right-hand man, though," she said. "That must have given you trust issues."

His face darkened and he pushed his half-eaten meal away and sat back.

Ah. She nodded to herself. And what reason did he have to trust _her?_ She'd been lying to him since the first day he met her. She looked away, uncomfortable, and got to her feet, bringing her plate and glass with her. She didn't have much of an appetite any longer and washing the dishes gave her something to do.

After a minute, he brought his meal over to the counter and stood beside her. "It seems a shame to waste it," he said, gesturing with the plate. "Can I wrap it up? I'll bring the plate right back."

So he was leaving. This was the beginning of a polite retreat. She nodded and gave him a small smile she didn't feel.

"Of course," she said.

"I'll be right back."

She nodded and washed and tried not to care when the door clicked shut behind him a few seconds later. Why was there a pain blossoming in her chest? She barely knew him; it shouldn't hurt this much.

But there were so many things about him that she loved. Or rather, admired and respected. She had done so for as long as she'd known him and even before then, she supposed. It's hard not to fall in love with an ideal when your elderly aunt describes him with tears in her eyes. But who was he, really?


	3. Dessert

_3_

He returned sooner than she'd expected and she had to dry off her hands on the dishtowel to let him in. She expected him to just hand her the plate and thank her politely for supper, but he took the dishtowel from her with a smile and tossed it over his shoulder, waiting expectantly for her to go back into the apartment. She blinked, confused, and went ahead of him. They walked down the short hall in silence and he followed her to the sink, where she took his plate and washed it while he cleared the remnants of the meal from the table and brought them over, then promptly started drying the cleaned dishes and putting them away in their proper places. She watched him with growing amusement.

"What?" he finally asked.

"Just you. Captain America, in my kitchen, washing my dishes."

"Technically, I'm only drying them."

"I'm so disappointed."

He chuckled.

"So why are _you_ still here?" she asked.

He frowned at her. "What do you mean?"

"I don't suppose I've given you much reason to trust me," she said.

"You were doing your job." He smiled. "Actually, it's rather nice to know that someone was looking out for me that whole time, even when I didn't realize it."

"You didn't seem happy about it when I saw you next."

He looked away. "Sorry about that. I was having a bad day. I thought I'd just watched Fury die. I didn't know who to trust anymore and you had added fuel to that fire."

She froze. _I thought…?_ She filed that away for later, not sure that he'd meant to reveal what he had.

"I tried to keep my distance," she said. "I didn't want to lie to you any more than absolutely necessary."

"Thank you," he said, then gave a soft laugh. "I thought I made you uncomfortable."

"No," she said with a smile, running the last wine glass under the water to rinse it. "Quite the opposite." She glanced at him as she handed him the glass and then she started wiping down the sink. "If circumstances had been different, we probably would have tried something like this long before now."

He laughed.

"Why do you seem so willing to trust me now, though?" she asked, setting down the sponge and rinsing off her hands. He put away the last of the dishes and let her take the dishtowel from him when she gestured for it. She dried her hands with it and turned to face him.

"Because you apologized at the first opportunity," he said quietly. "And because you didn't take advantage of me when you could have."

She nodded and ran the dishtowel over a small puddle on the counter.

He chuckled. "I really had no idea you were S.H.I.E.L.D. You're very good at what you do," he said. "Speaking of which, what are you doing now?"

"CIA," she said. "Mid-level field agent."

"Do you like it?"

"It's okay," she said, laying the dishtowel aside. "I just feel like a small cog at the moment, but at least there are plenty of opportunities to practice at the range. It helps."

He nodded and looked away.

"What do you do to relax?" she asked.

"Read. Sketch," he said, then frowned. "But not so much lately."

"Why not?" She smiled at the thought of him drawing in his free time. He'd never just been brawn in her mind, but it hadn't occurred to her that there was art in his soul.

"They used to be a welcome retreat," he said, "but I don't need to escape from people as much these days."

She chuckled. "No, I should think what you need is the reverse."

"Hence why I'm standing in your kitchen." He smiled, then glanced down at himself. "Oh, I hope you don't mind this," he said, plucking at his clothing. "Dressing up didn't feel…right."

She laughed and glanced down at herself. "Not at all. I can hardly complain, can I? Besides," she let her eyes take him in, "I find this look very appealing."

He grinned and crossed his arms, glancing at her briefly but then fixing his eyes on her face. "I agree."

She smiled and wanted to kiss him again. She took a step closer and rested her palms on his forearms. He looked at her for a moment and then dropped his arms and bent his head to meet her mouth with his own. Her hands ended up resting on his pecs. The muscles felt like something out of an exaggerated fantasy, almost cartoonish in their size and hardness. Feeling self-conscious, she quickly dropped her hands to his waist, but accidentally brushed against his nipples as she moved, and he stiffened and drew in his breath with a short gasp, although he kept his lips against hers.

"Sorry," she murmured, and their lips met briefly in apology and acceptance and then parted. "I didn't mean to do that." She drew back, although he continued to hold her, and she gestured lamely with her hands. "I'm not used to this shape."

He chuckled. "Your husband didn't look like he belonged on the cover of a bodice-ripper?"

She looked up at him, smiling and then briefly frowning in question.

He shrugged. "Natasha enjoys teasing me," he said. "Her words."

Sharon chuckled and then tilted her head, trying not to be distracted by the firmness and warmth of his waist, either. "I'm just curious…was there something between you two?"

"No," he said. "We're just friends."

She nodded. "I like her. People thought she was arrogant and cold, but she had good reason to be reserved."

"How well do you know her?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Not really well. I'm just basing my assertion on what came out about her in the leak. We talked shop a few times and laughed at each other's jokes in the cafeteria on occasion. There aren't a lot of women in computer science."

He nodded, then frowned. "How is it that _I_ never ran into you?"

"I made it my business to know when you were in the Triskelion and where. You never had reason to enter my silo and I never entered yours without checking on your location first. We had a near miss once."

He frowned. "You kept tabs on me?"

"I had to," she said. "Part of the job."

"Can you still do it?" he asked.

"Not without your permission," she said. "The servers that tracked everyone were shut down."

He nodded and then a distinctly playful look came into his eyes. "This is officially the longest I've ever held a woman in my arms…a conscious one, that is."

She laughed. "You like it?"

"Very much," he said, and kissed her again. He was learning quickly. He matched her movements, experimented with some of his own, and was gentle throughout. She had to resist the urge to press herself against him. _He's going to make a very good lover._ She sighed contentedly and straightened. _If we ever get that far._

When they parted, she smiled up at him and drew away. "Do you want to continue the conversation in there?" She gestured at her living room.

"Sure," he said. "Could I trouble you for a glass of water?"

"Of course," she said.

He settled on one end of the couch as she brought two glasses in and set them down on the coffee table. She sat on the other end of the couch, tucking her legs up under herself, and picked up her glass. He had drained his glass and sat back, but now he looked a little awkward with his long legs stuck between the couch and the coffee table and she smiled.

"Go ahead and put your feet up if it'll be more comfortable," she said. "I don't mind."

He looked relieved and quickly did it, then slouched down a bit and rested his head on the back cushions, closing his eyes with a sigh, and clasped his hands on his stomach. He was beautiful, and it wasn't just skin-deep. Looking at him made her happy. She smiled and took a sip of her water.

"So," she said, enjoying the opportunity to let her eyes take him in. "What sort of arrangement are _you_ looking for?"

He opened one eye and looked at her, then closed his eye again with a slight frown.

She waited patiently.

After a long moment, he opened his eyes, looking straight ahead, and said, "Well, there's the fantasy and there's the reality."

She smiled into her glass as she took another sip. "What's the fantasy?"

He eyed her with a lopsided grin. "It's not nearly as interesting as you're imagining, I'm sure."

"Try me," she said.

He shrugged. "The same thing as most men, I suppose. A wife, kids, a home, and a satisfying job. Except in my head it's still the '40s, so the kids are listening to the radio, not playing with an Xbox."

She laughed. "I think most men probably fantasize about living your life, actually."

He chuckled and shook his head.

"So," she said. "Aside from it not being the 1940s, why are those things only a fantasy?"

He frowned at her for a second and then looked away. He held up his hand and started ticking off his fingers.

"Well, let's see," he said, his tone dry and self-mocking; it hurt to hear. "I'm a stranger in this time and place, never quite sure how to _be_ here; I don't have a job; and I could be called upon at any time by our government to fight and to give my life and I would go without hesitation. I can't provide a woman with stability and I would probably require her help just to navigate the necessities of everyday life." He held up his other hand and continued ticking. "And I haven't even mentioned whether I could safely—" his voice caught for a moment and he glanced at her, then looked quickly away again, "—engage in sexual intercourse. Maybe I'm too strong and I'd lose control and hurt her. Or maybe the virus that's in me would infect her, but without the full procedure I went through, it would kill her instead of strengthen her. And even if that went off without a hitch—which is a big 'if'—would I be able to father children? And if I did, would they be freaks? Or would they be healthy, but strong enough that in a normal mother, they would harm her while she carried them?" He shivered at this. "I should never have gone to see _Breaking Dawn_," he muttered.

She laughed. "Why did you?"

"It seemed very popular. I wanted to understand why."

She shook her head, still chuckling. "Wow, you _are_ a hot mess."

He laughed, then covered his eyes with one hand and sighed.

"Why haven't you run away screaming yet?" he asked. "I would have."

"No, you wouldn't. And that's why."

He looked across at her, then frowned and looked away again.

"What?" she asked.

He drew in a deep breath and then exhaled.

"I feel like I've known you forever," he said quietly. "But that can't be right. That's not my head talking."

"What does your gut tell you?"

He scowled. "I don't know if I can trust my gut anymore."

"Still, what is it telling you?" she asked.

He looked at her for a long while. It should have begun to feel uncomfortable, but somehow it didn't. If this wasn't going to work, it was best to figure that out now, at the beginning, before either of them invested too much.

"To trust you," he said finally. "To let you in." He smiled. "To pursue you."

She smiled and took another sip of her water. "You're opening up a lot more than I had expected."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?"

"Not at all," she said. "I'm honored."

He looked at her with that frank gaze. "I figure that if I want someone to let me know them, I need to allow myself to be known first. I'm tired of hiding this part of myself and playing it safe." He drew his feet off the coffee table and sat up. "I waited too long to tell Peggy how I felt," he said quietly, "and by the time I did, it was too late." He looked down at his hands. "I'm ready to try erring in the other direction, I guess."

"If you're serious about this," she said, "there are things we can do to try to get answers to all your concerns. You don't have to go it alone, ruled by your fears."

He looked at her sharply, then turned his face away and nodded. When he looked at her again, there were the beginnings of a smile on his face.

"I'm serious about this," he said. "But it's new for me, too." He frowned and squinted off to the side for a moment. "I don't know if I'm making a big mistake. I barely know you. This conversation might end tonight. Or it might not." He sighed and dropped his head with a bitter laugh, then lifted it and looked at her. "How did you know when you were ready to marry Phil? What did it take?"

She looked down at the glass in her hands and smiled, blinking back a slight sting in her eyes. Setting the glass down on the coffee table and standing up, she went across to her bookcase and lifted a box down from the top shelf.

"What's this?" he asked, as she brought it over to the coffee table and opened it, sitting down again.

She shrugged. "Just a box of memories, nothing valuable," she said. "Things that remind me of friends and family and important moments." She rifled through the box for a moment before lifting an envelope out and handing it to him. He frowned, but took it.

"Go ahead," she said.

He carefully opened the envelope—it was a little stiff with age—and started to pull out the two sheets inside.

"When I was in high school," she said, and he looked up at her, "I thought I was in love. I got really serious with a guy, gave him everything he asked for, thinking it would make him happy and that would make me happy." She shifted back and pulled her legs up underneath her again. "He cheated on me with another girl." She smoothed a wrinkle on her pants. "What we had, it didn't mean anything to him, not like it did to me. I was crushed. I didn't trust myself to make wise judgements about men ever again." She sighed. "When Aunt Peggy found out, she wrote me this. I call it 'the List'." She smiled. "It's kind of made the rounds in our family. I'll be honest: it has ended some relationships."

She watched his face as he read the two pages. His eyes grew wet but he didn't cry; he just smiled and blinked and kept reading.

"This is great," he said quietly. He pressed his lips together, letting his eyes rove over the letter, clearly not reading it now but just looking at it. "This is her to a tee." He drew in a deep breath. "I never thought I'd see her handwriting again. Even now, she's still changing my life—"

He suddenly dropped his hand with the sheets of paper into his lap and squeezed his eyes shut, his face pulling into a rictus of pain. Sharon could tell he was fighting tears and she stood up and walked down the hall. She went into the bathroom and picked up the box of tissues. When she came back out, she could see that he had folded in on himself and although his shoulders were shaking slightly, he was silent.

She took a chance and came up behind him. She set down the tissues on the back of the couch and rested her palm on his shoulder. His frame shook and she heard a wracking sob. He covered her hand with his own, grasping her fingers tightly for a moment. She crouched down and shifted and was soon holding him from behind, one arm angled over his chest and held there by him. His frame continued to shake, but only for a short while; he soon brought himself under control. She handed him a tissue with her free hand, then another. He nodded his thanks and took them.

When he was able to relax and sit back against her, having cleaned himself up, he drew in a deep breath.

"Sorry about that," he said.

"No, no," she murmured, and pressed a kiss to the fabric on his shoulder before drawing back. He released her arm.

"I'm sorry," she said, inviting him to give her his tissues. "I didn't stop and think about the effect that letter might have on you."

He shook his head and waved her off. "I'm grateful to have seen this. You have no idea." He smiled up at her with slightly reddened eyes as she came around him and picked up the empty glasses.

"More water?" she asked, gesturing with them.

"Here, let me help you," he said, starting to rise.

"No, I'm fine," she said. "Take a moment. I'll be right back."

He chuckled bitterly and looked away. "That bad, huh?"

"No," she said gently, bending down. She pressed a kiss to his forehead. "You're beautiful."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "You need to stop doing that," he muttered, opening his eyes and giving her a small smile as she straightened up. "You're going to reduce me to a blubbering wreck again."

"Blubber away," she said, moving towards the kitchen. "It's good for the soul."

He laughed, nodded, and looked back down at the sheets of paper still in his hands.

She threw out the used tissues and set aside the glasses and washed her hands, taking a moment for herself. This evening had become emotionally intense and she hadn't been prepared for it. She looked up as she dried off her hands. She didn't regret it, though. Even if they didn't work out, she was going to treasure this evening for the rest of her life. She smiled and blinked and swallowed and breathed and waited until she felt her own emotions receding, and then she filled the two glasses and carried them back into the living room.

"Thanks," he said, taking his from her outstretched hand. He took a swallow and then set it down, gesturing with the letter. "So you and Phil went through all these questions together?"

"Over time," she said. "I never showed him the letter while we were dating, but I made sure we covered all the topics. Then I asked him to marry me."

Steve laughed.

She shrugged as she set her glass down on the coffee table. "Why wait? As it turned out, he'd started planning how to propose on my birthday, which was going to be a few weeks later, so we were already on the same page by then. To be honest," she admitted as she settled back down on her end of the couch again, "I hadn't planned to propose. But there was this moment when I was sitting beside him after supper one night—we'd just finished watching _Schindler's List_, not a romantic movie—"

"No," Steve said.

"—and I looked at him and thought of how much better a man he was than so many of the people in that story, and how all the things I loved most about him were character traits, things that he'd still have in 30 years, no matter how his appearance changed. And then…" she looked down at her hands, bit her lip, and gave a soft laugh, "…then I heard God telling me to ask Phil to marry me."

She was reluctant to raise her eyes, afraid that she'd gone too far this time. Steve was going to think her crazy, claiming to have heard the voice of God. But when she finally looked up at him, he was just sitting across from her with a quiet smile on his face.

"Does that happen often?" he asked.

"God telling me to propose to people?" she said. "No. Don't worry. You're not in any imminent danger."

He laughed. "No…you hearing Him talk to you."

She tilted her head and looked down at her hands. "It feels like it happens often," she said, "but He mostly just says, 'Trust Me' a lot. Not the big life-changing stuff."

"Trusting Him can be life-changing," Steve said.

She met his eyes. "In a quiet, everyday way, I suppose," she agreed.

"I'd wondered what you meant when you said you have strong convictions," he said. "Many people have strong convictions, but don't seem willing—or able—to explain why." He gave a wry sort of nod. "Of course, I don't generally go around pressing people on it," he said with a smile. "It doesn't tend to end well."

Then his smile faded and he looked away.

"What?" she asked.

"Just remembering a conversation with Fury," he said. "When he was still Pierce's mouthpiece. He'd just shown me Project Insight for the first time. I found it deeply disturbing." Steve looked at her. "Why didn't you ever question it?"

She frowned and looked away. "I thought we were just launching the next-gen helicarriers. Not mobile assassination platforms. I'd never been down to the construction bays; I didn't have clearance or any need to, really. I was just in charge of the software that made sure they got into the air without a problem and stayed there. It's called compartmentalization."

Steve scowled. "That's what Fury said."

"It has its benefits," she said carefully. "Although, as we saw, it lends itself far too easily to abuse."

"That's the hardest thing to face," he said, frowning. "Our government has never been a bastion of righteousness, not really, but to have welcomed HYDRA agents and then nurtured their way of thinking to the point where we had become indistinguishable from a fascist regime? It was a betrayal of all our most cherished values! It made our sacrifices worthless!"

She pressed her lips together and frowned.

"I keep asking myself: how could it ever have been allowed to get this far?" he said. "What if I'd never been found in the ice and re-awakened? Would anyone have stood up and refused to let it go on?"

"People would have tried," she said quietly, and left the implication unsaid. He looked at her and nodded.

"You're not here by accident, Steve," she said quietly. "I firmly believe that."

The look in his eyes was haunted. He frowned and glanced away with a shake of his head.

"I'm just a kid from Brooklyn," he murmured. "Why me?"

"No one can answer that," she said. "But you know what I think? I think it's because you believe in something deeper than what most people are content to believe in. You know there's a greater battle being fought here, and it's not between governments or political ideologies or who has the biggest guns."

He looked at her for a long moment.

"It's a battle between Right and Wrong, Good and Evil, the Holy and the Sinful, Love versus Fear. It's a battle for the human soul," she said.

He chuckled. "And you called me 'dramatic'."

"Tell me it's not true," she said, raising her eyebrows.

He sighed and looked away.

"Something that has been even more of a struggle than figuring out who I am now is figuring out…" he made a frustrated gesture with his hands, "…what I can stand on." He looked at her. "Things that everyone used to take for granted…they don't anymore. I don't just feel out-of-date because I don't understand pop-culture references. I feel old because I value things that no one seems to care about any longer. And I don't know if I'm right or they are. Or if there's something in between that's the truth." He frowned and sighed. "Some things just _feel_ right, deep in my bones, and other things feel wrong. When no one around me seems to share those convictions, I start wondering what the point of my having convictions even is. Why am I fighting to defend an ever-shrinking island?" He shifted on the couch, turning to face her and pulling one of his legs up underneath himself. "I can't stop believing in 'something deeper', as you put it, but sometimes I doubt whether my beliefs are right."

"Everyone goes through that," she said. "But the ones that care don't stop there." She looked at him for a long moment. "I take it this isn't your first crisis of faith. You tried to enlist five times."

He looked down with a smile.

"What you need is to know you're not alone," she said.

He looked at her. "Are you with me?"

"Of course," she said with a grin. "But you need more than me. Come to church with me."

He frowned. "I tried that already." He squinted off to the side. "It didn't work."

"What do you mean?"

He sighed. "When my mother died…church attendance lost something for me. She had been the one who was really passionate about it. Although my beliefs didn't change, I thought I'd find my faith outside the church." He looked back at Sharon. "I thought I'd find something more concrete to believe in if I could fight for what I knew was right. That worked…for a while." He ran his palms over his thighs, then angled his hands out in a frustrated gesture. "When things had settled down after New York and S.H.I.E.L.D. had given me a place to be, I made a stab at finding a spiritual home." He gave a bitter laugh. "S.H.I.E.L.D. certainly couldn't provide it."

She snorted. "No."

"I went to the Basilica and St. Patrick's," he said. "A lot felt familiar, but the mass was in English, which just felt...off. The priest spent the whole time facing us. The music was different. And I felt overdressed." He frowned. "So I visited a few Protestant churches in the D.C. area. I'd never really bought into the whole idea that stepping into one would send me directly to hell. Some of the best men I served with were Protestants. In fact, one was an atheist. I went more out of curiosity than out of a genuine desire to join, though." He looked at her. "The people were friendly enough. But if the church wasn't sparsely filled with only older folks, it was filled with lights and loud music and giant screens and it felt more like a show than a service." He shrugged. "I tried a few places where the population wasn't mostly white people, places that had a younger population and still seemed to preserve something more reverential in their order of service, but…" he shook his head. "I just didn't fit there, either. I even visited a Buddhist temple." He smiled. "That was interesting, but not for me."

She nodded and looked down at her hands.

"So are you going to tell me that your church is a perfect fit for me?" he asked drily.

She looked up at him. "No, of course not. Some days, it's not even a perfect fit for me." She grinned. "A far wiser person once said that there's no perfect church. And if there was, it would cease to be perfect the moment I walked into it."

He chuckled.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

He frowned slightly. "I'm not sure. Maybe something that reminds me of my childhood?" He sighed. "It's impossible, I know. That's why I hold on to a few simple habits, like praying over my meals."

"It might not be impossible," she said. "What was your childhood like?"

"A lot of hard work," he said. "I remember being tired most of the time. We didn't have much."

"The Great Depression."

He nodded. "It wasn't so hard at the beginning, but when my father died, I had to help my mother make ends meet. Then when she died…" He frowned and looked down. Sharon waited. "I only had Bucky," he finished quietly.

Steve looked up again after a long moment, giving her a thin smile. "Maybe trying to relive my childhood isn't such a great idea."

She nodded and looked down, not sure what to say. There was something about what he had said that reminded her of...but she couldn't remember it. She frowned.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I told you that I didn't want to load you down with my baggage, but here I am, just…killing the mood."

She smiled and met his eyes. "No, not at all." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "You never really took advantage of the shrinks that S.H.I.E.L.D. had on staff, did you?"

He frowned in question. "Shrinks?"

"Psychiatrists."

"Oh. No." He shook his head. "I'd had enough of being stared at and interviewed and examined by the media."

"You didn't have to go through a psych eval to become an agent?"

He just gave her a look and she giggled.

"No, I don't suppose you would have," she said. "Fury would have been shi—ah, very eager—to have you on board."

He laughed. "You don't have to censor yourself on my account," he said. "I've heard it all—or some older variation on it—I'm sure."

"Right," she said. "I've got chocolate ice cream in the freezer. Want some?"

He grinned. "Definitely."

She stood up, picked up her glass, and went around the couch. He rose to his feet and stretched, then followed her into the kitchen, his own glass in hand.

"Thanks for listening," he said. "I had no idea how good it would feel."

She laughed. "Ditto."

He found bowls and spoons while she dug the container of Rocky Road out and got the ice cream scoop from the drawer. She served up two scoops to them both.

"Is that good?" she asked.

"Yep," he said, and dug in. He briefly closed his eyes in pleasure and hummed.

"Bet you didn't have that when you were a kid," she said with a grin.

"Not this flavor, specifically, no," he replied after swallowing. "What is this?"

"My favorite," she said.

He picked up the container and looked at it. "'Ben &amp; Jerry's Rocky Road-ish'," he read out. "I'll have to make a note of that."

She giggled and took a bite, feeling happy.

He put down his bowl of half-finished ice cream and the Ben &amp; Jerry's container and dug something out of his pocket. It was a small notebook with a pen bound to it. He flipped the notebook open and scribbled in it.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Just taking notes," he said. "Things to follow up on. Stuff people recommend." He closed it, secured the pen, and slipped it back into his pocket.

"You know," she said slowly, watching him pick up his bowl again. "There is something you might consider doing." He started to set the bowl down again as he reached for his pocket, but she put out a hand. "I don't mean something you need to make note of," she said.

He tilted his head with a slight frown. "What is it?"

"Have you thought about writing down your experiences?" she asked. "You're unique in human history, as far as I know. Your perspective on suddenly being dropped back into the flow of things after nearly 70 years of being out of it: I bet that's fascinating, and not just to historians."

He gave his ice cream a thoughtful look.

"You could probably write a newspaper column," she said.

He smirked at her. "I thought newspapers were as outdated as I am."

"Sure, most _print_ papers are on the way out," she said. "But there are plenty of online publications. You could write a blog, create interest, turn it into a writing career if you wanted to."

He finished a spoonful of ice cream and looked uncomfortable. "I've never really been much of a writer," he said.

She shrugged. "Just a thought. I'm sure publishers would be clamoring for a memoir. You were special ops in World War II; most of that stuff has been declassified. And S.H.I.E.L.D.?" She smirked. "There's nothing left to classify at this point."

"Not everything worth knowing was written down," he said sourly.

"True," she admitted. "And not everything written down was stored on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s servers. There was a shadow network. We have the IP addresses, but that's about it. They disappeared within minutes of the leak."

"Which means they're still out there, somewhere," he said, his expression darkening as he lowered his hands.

"Eat your ice cream," she said with a smile. "We'll track them down later."

He laughed, then looked down and shook his head. He gave a long sigh and looked up at her. "Thank you," he said, and obediently took another bite.

She smiled and continued eating, then suddenly _remembered_ what his earlier conversation had sparked.

"Ah!"

"What?" he asked.

"Just a sec." She set down her bowl and went over to pull her phone out of her purse. She quickly did a search for 'latin mass dc area' and grinned when she browsed through the search results. She glanced through a page briefly and then walked back to him, holding up her phone. "Old St. Mary's."

He frowned and took the phone from her.

"I just remembered," she explained. "Pope Benedict brought back the Latin mass as an option. There aren't a lot churches that offer it, but here: Old St. Mary's does."

He read the screen. "That's not far from here."

"No."

He looked up at her with a small smile before glancing down again. Then he twisted and set down the phone.

"Thank you," he said, straightening, and she smiled and nodded.

They were both resting their hips against the breakfast bar, facing each other. He moved his hand with his bowl to the side and closed the distance between them, resting his other hand on her available hip. She smiled and set her bowl down as their lips met. He tasted like chocolate ice cream, his mouth a mix of cold and warm. This time, partly for the taste and partly because they were growing more comfortable with one another, she let herself explore his mouth a bit with her tongue. She heard his bowl land with a light clatter on the counter beside them and she giggled, and then he pulled her away from the breakfast bar and rested his newly-available hand on her other hip. He never pushed into her mouth with his own tongue, but he let her continue to play briefly before encouraging her to pull back.

"Sorry," she murmured, starting to feel ashamed, but his hands quickly came up to cup the sides of her face and he ran his thumbs over her ears.

"No, please, don't be," he said. He nudged her face up and she met his eyes. "Please. I'm not upset. I just need time to adjust."

She nodded and swallowed. "Of course. I'm in no rush."

He closed his eyes. "Everything in me is demanding that I be in one," he said, and she laughed and nodded and gave the sides of his waist a fond pat before dropping her hands. He drew back, opening his eyes again.

"We're okay?" she asked.

"More than okay," he answered, smiling now. "Better than I could have hoped."

She stepped back, unable to stop her own smile, and picked up her bowl. He followed suit and they grinned at one another while they quickly finished the last couple spoonfuls of ice cream.

"Just leave it," she said, when they put their empty bowls in the sink and he started to reach for the sponge. "I like washing dishes."

"Oh, good," he said. "I don't."

She laughed.

He drained his glass of water and put it in the sink, too. "Thanks for supper…and everything else."

"You're welcome. Anytime. Really."

He smiled. "Next time, my place. I make a mean Irish stew."

"It's a date," she said with a grin.

He paused and looked at her. "It is, isn't it?" He gave her such an adorable, boyish smile that she had to restrain herself from leaping on him again. She chuckled and shook her head. She had a sneaking suspicion that this was going to be very different from how things had progressed with Phil.

"What?" Steve asked.

She shrugged and started to move towards the door. "Nothing, really. I've just had an unexpectedly nice evening."

They paused when they reached the door.

"Me too," he said.

They kissed briefly, and her rebellious body betrayed her by sinking against him for a heartbeat before she caught herself and straightened, her eyes still closed. _God, I hope this works out._

He chuckled. "Me too."

Her eyes flew open and she covered her mouth with her hand. "Did I just say that out loud? Oh!" She covered her face with her hands and gave an embarrassed giggle.

He laughed and nudged her hands off her face, then kissed her forehead.

"Good night," he said when she looked up at him, and he pulled open her door.

"Good night," she answered, still trying to suppress a giggle. She finally succeeded. "Thank you."

"For what?" he asked, giving her a lopsided grin as he stepped out into the hallway. "Eating your food and dumping my emotional baggage on you?"

"For giving me a second chance," she said.

He swallowed and nodded and looked away briefly, then turned back and smiled at her. "When will I see you next?"

She paused and frowned. "Oh."

"What is it?"

"I leave tomorrow morning for my first assignment," she said. "I don't know when I'll be back."

His face fell, but then he looked up at her and smiled. "You know where to find me," he said.

She chuckled. "Not without your permission."

"I still have my phone," he said. "Call me when you next get the chance. I assume," he wiggled his eyebrows at her, "that you still have my number."

She laughed. "Okay. But you don't have mine."

"I will when you call me."

"Fine! Go! Go. I'll call you right now."

"I can't stay up to all hours talking," he said in an amused tone, giving her the odd impression that he was parroting his mother. He moved towards his apartment. "I have a busy day tomorrow."

She frowned. "Doing what?"

"I don't know," he said with a grin. "I'll think of something."

She laughed.

He unlocked his door and then paused and turned to her.

"Thank you," he said. "You've given me a lot to think about."

"You're welcome."

His answering smile left her warm, and she was slightly relieved when he was out of sight and she could close her own door. Then she smiled. She had a phone call to make.

* * *

Steve picked up his phone from the shelf by the door and smiled down at it as he moved further into his apartment.

He hoped this would work out and he was going to do everything in his power to make sure it did.

* * *

_Author's Notes_

This story is dedicated to my friend **Caitlin**, who was the one who made me aware of Captain America as a moral hero, not just a lucky, old-fashioned nice guy. Without her, I never would have become a Cap fan. :)

Many thanks go to **Scarlett Kingston** for her excellent beta feedback! She caught several embarrassing mistakes and this story would not be what it is without her help. I also owe a huge debt to the Russo brothers, Jack Kirby, Joe Simon, Ed Brubaker, Stephen McFeely, and Christopher Markus, not to mention Chris Evans and Emily VanCamp, for bringing these characters to life onscreen. Finally, thanks go to my husband, for his encouragement and patience, and to God, who gave me the desire to write in the first place and the inspiration for this whole story, really.

Thanks so much for reading! If you have suggestions for improvement, please let me know! I don't mind if you leave them in the public comments and I also welcome private messages (PMs).

* * *

_I do not own any properties in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, nor do I make any money from the writing of this story._

Dialogue excerpts from _Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014)_; characters and situations based on _Captain America: The First Avenger (2011)_, _The Avengers (2012)_, and _Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014) © Marvel Entertainment._

_This story released under the GPL/CC BY: verbatim copying and distribution of this entire work are permitted worldwide, without royalty, in any medium, provided attribution is preserved._


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